


Fallen shield

by Ruiniel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Cuckolding, Emyn Arnen, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Ithilien, Middle Earth, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26476990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruiniel/pseuds/Ruiniel
Summary: A cold night in Emyn Arnen. PWP oneshot.Based on a prompt received from antiheld. If you are so inclined, check out their story 'Astray' on fanfiction.net, it's the best Fourth Age AU (with an added bonus of Legolas/OC) I've read to date - and I have read quite a few of them.- Include this statement in the content: "Á, i tyalie i quendi tyalir" - "Oh, the games Elves play" (source: realelvish dot net)- Genre: erotica- Pairing: Legolas/Éowyn *slaps knee*This is the result. So, here we go, Legolas and Éowyn...---DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended.
Relationships: Éowyn/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Fallen shield

_Emyn Arnen, Year 9 of the Fourth Age_

The night was bitter; she shut the windows against the wind. A harsh winter had struck in Emyn Arnen, and the fire in the wide hearth burned brightly, its flames haloing her slight figure in a warm glow.

Éowyn of Rohan looked to the falling evening, where the hills ahead lay dormant under heavy snows. The frost hit early this year, but then, it had never been terribly warm in this region. She crossed her arms at her chest. For a moment, Edoras came to mind, with its dry, hot days and rich fields of yellow wheat, brushing her bare arms; her young self, fallen amid tall grasslands under the sun, free and unknowing. The sound of insects buzzing in the quiet heat. Such memories were sparse, but she held on to them as precious tokens. Then followed a time when the daughter of Rohan wanted to achieve more, to be more, to lead. She had much to prove then. The War changed many lives.

"When will he return?" a voice broke the silence, startling her, soft though it was.

Her eyes closed, and a sad smile layered her face. On any other day, she would be the sole presence in the room. Éowyn stood still and tense, barely feeling her fingers shiver at her sides. She brought them before her and clasped them together. "I am never sure lately," she offered. Her voice was weak, a contrast to her imposing presence during official court matters. "Minas Tirith is awfully busy this time of year, or so he says. The King plans another incursion into the East."

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, had many responsibilities, none could deny it. Some he maintained more than others. There had been moments in the past when the choice of wedding him proved wise and good to Éowyn. She was strong and so was he, and their thought was one at times. And even today, Éowyn could not deny the wisdom of it. And was it not wisdom to move forward with one's life and try to forget?

She turned from the window, her eyes meeting storm-grey ones.

Yes, to forget.

The Elf was leaning with his shoulder against a stone pillar in the room. He was garbed in the manner of his people, and a green cloak lay abandoned on a settee, together with a grey outer tunic. He faced her in a long, white shirt reaching to his knees and grey trousers. He had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and his feet were bare. Éowyn remembered his kind did not feel the cold as Men did.

His heavy hair spilled over one shoulder as the Elf tilted his head, and the light of the fireplace danced in his eyes. His dark eyebrows were drawn together, his lips forming a small smile.

It reminded Éowyn of another time, and another chamber. He looked the same then, propped against an obliging pillar in the choking full Meduseld. Drunken merriment roamed about him, and he appeared so out-of-place then, still and as cold as the gold gilding the halls. He watched her then, much as he did now, his eyes reluctantly finding the corners of her smile, seeking the fullness of her tresses. Nothing appeared changed about him, but she knew better.

Éowyn flinched when he slowly righted himself from the pillar and walked over to her, closing the distance between them.

Her chest rose with trepidation. She reminded herself it was she who called him here, under official pretense; just as she had insisted on tending to him years past, upon the broken battlements of Helm's Deep. Just as she foolishly kissed him that one desperate night, riding outside of Edoras. He had followed her then, soothed her - and then he had refused her.

And now?

"Are you certain of this, my lady Éowyn?" his voice was clear, his eyes hooded. His hand spasmed at his side, curbing an urge.

Éowyn smiled. In public meetings and social context, he would always address her using those precise words, in that precise order.

_My lady Éowyn._

But now there was no mischief to it. He was searching for meaning, perhaps for her to give him enough reason to refuse again. As she looked up at him, Éowyn recalled how much taller he was than everyone she knew. His otherness was further enhanced by the dim lighting and the shadows cast about them.

"Are you afraid?" she goaded as happened when she felt cornered, swallowing her own doubt.

His frown deepened as a long, roughened finger reached and grazed her cheek. He watched his own motion with wonder, as though it were someone else, then looked back into her eyes. "Of you?" a dry smile changed his face, the loftiness of immortals.

Éowyn scowled. Even back in Meduseld, years ago, he had been so aloof. Observing them all with that respectful disdain none but his kind appeared to possess. The first Elf she had seen whom Éowyn thought a cold, foreign creature of the past, and now his chest was warm against hers, and strands of his hair feathered over her face as he leaned in and placed a soft, shivering kiss to her cheek. His scent, too, was different to all she knew. It was lighter, sweeter; it enveloped instead of overwhelming her. Éowyn felt the light tremble of his hands when they eased on her waist, as if to steady them. Then, looking her in the eye one last time, he hesitated.

To withdraw now would be the greatest lie, though the urgency in his bearing and the shiver of his fingers surprised her a little. But she had never been afraid. Suddenly Éowyn was spun around in a vice hold, shieldmaiden and all, held against him as the Elf buried his face into her tumbling hair.

The woman took a wispy intake of air at the foreign words he spoke into her. "What-..." she tried asking, but then her nightgown fell off her shoulders, and she was turned to face him, pressed none too gently to his chest. Her breathing harsh at the vigor of his hold, she gazed up at him. The greys in his eyes had long since turned black, and he watched her with a lost, eerie expression.

She reached and ran two fingers through a strand of his hair. "You left it unbraided." He knew she liked it this way. It was always small, meaningful gestures with him.

"Yes." Cold, factual. His hands, long and slim and deceptively fine, were heavy on her lower back. Then, to both her unease and delight, he was leading them to the bed; one hand revealing the rest of her while the other still held the woman to him.

He led her down and pressed her into the mattress as Éowyn sought his gaze. A few threads of silken hair caught on his parted lips, and she reached to smooth them out of his face. His arm reached beneath her, trapping her slight ribcage and lifting her to him. His life beat into her chest, falling in the same rhythm with hers. A hammering mess. Her hand, small and curious, reached for his ageless face, tentative along his left ear; the shape had always intrigued her.

His eyes closed in a helpless shudder and Éowyn took this reprieve to run her hands down his tense back, roughly pulling his shirt over his head. The Elf rose and swiftly divested himself of the material, and Éowyn watched him with dazed eyes, her mouth open. The red light in the room outlined the hard planes of him, dancing crimson on his skin, licking across his middle. When he moved, the tautness beneath charged with reined strength. She rose to him, her fingers trailing the side of his powerful neck. She held his spectral gaze with frightened fascination as the Elf led her down again, his shoulders unyielding against hers; a faint gasp left her when her bare breasts came crushed to his chest. His hair tickled her face, strands mingling with her own.

"You know what this means?" he asked, running his tongue lightly along her ear.

Of course, she knew. This was merely a reminder. "But will it matter? It may not," she snapped, regretting it instantly. Éowyn felt rather cold at the notion, in odd contrast to the way they burned.

"Don't speak like that." His words were gentle, musical. "You cannot wed twice. And this is... this is different for me," he wrapped a bright gold curl around his finger.

Her bare legs tightened around him. "... is there someone else?"

The Elf blinked. His fair features twisted in both need and intense displeasure. "I told you what you are to me."

One matter settled. "Will there... ever be someone else?" Éowyn continued. It was laughable how she tried to ease his worries when her own thrashed for purchase to the surface.

The Elf had risen on his forearms, caging her beneath him. "No."

She had wanted this for longer than she remembered, and he knew it. First, there was the War. Her uncle dying. Faramir. Meduseld after the War. Then, Emyn Arnen... a choice hardly made.

Éowyn took his face between her palms. "Lie with me." She felt him hardening against her.

Resistance crumbled. He had made his peace with it all; her living at a stone's throw from him but so out of reach, her husband in his ivory tower; those years of abject longing after the War; that first time their eyes met in the patched Halls of Edoras.

Éowyn leveled him with a worried stare, but forgot all when he leaned close and kissed her. It was hungry, desperate. She wanted to speak, but each time she broke away his grip was in her hair, keeping her still. He felt so fresh, drowned her like a hot stream, and she was parched.

"Á, i tyalie i quendi tyalir…" his breath came soft in her ear as they felt each other to the point of painfulness.

"What... what is that?" Éowyn asked, turning her head, breathless against his cheek.

"It means-"

He gasped when she took him in hand, her grip pleasing and strong.

Éowyn grinned. He was warm and pulsing, and the tips of her fingers barely met around him. This would be _very_ different.

With unreal grace, the Elf removed her hand, pinning her wrist above her head.

She stared into pitch-black eyes. He brought her leg around him; she grasped his shoulder. He found her and slipped inside, his hand seizing a strand of gold. "It means, ' _the games that... Elves play_ '..." he went deeper, the last word dying on her lips.

The woman pushed against him despite the tumult of her blood; her temper the winner. "I am a _game_ to you?"

But her ire was deliciously smothered again, and she could not put a single word in. It never should have been so _good_ , nor felt so _right_. A brief thought of Faramir crossed her mind, and she strained against him.

"Éowyn ..." the Elf hissed, resting his forehead against hers. "I can sense your fretting," but his pace was steady, chasing away her thoughts, gratified to feel her unwinding again.

"Forgive me," Éowyn tried as he rose and flipped her easily on her belly, pressing down the length of her body.

She felt his hands beneath her, gliding between her thighs. His fingers were just as deft as the rest of him. "You are forgiven."

Éowyn panicked at the strange sensation of something fusing within her. She struggled as he drove into her, but he paid her no heed, his chest pressed to her back, one hand in her rich mane, the other grasping her chin. A finger had slid between her parted lips. He whispered things she failed to understand, but their meaning still breached her mind. He was relentless, driving her to the edge many times before ceasing, crushing and rebuilding her.

"Wait!" she hissed, a hand to his hip.

The Elf slowed and watched her as she wriggled beneath him, turning on her back. There was a slippery sheen on his skin from the effort and his hair stuck like silk to his temples, neck, and shoulders.

Éowyn employed of the skills gained in combat, and a hand to his shoulder forced him on his back, and then she was atop him.

He seemed startled at first, but it soon faded in a sly smile.

She saw his muscles tensing in harmony when the Elf reached for her, kneading the flesh of her thighs as she straddled him. His length was between them, straight and glistening.

She ran her palms over the winding scars etched into his skin. More reminders. She wanted to kiss them. "I lead, now," she said absently, her hands come on either side of his head, rolling her hips. He bucked against her, but she held him down by the shoulders with all her strength. It was not enough, she knew better. But he allowed her the illusion that it was.

The Elf grinned, his chest rising and falling with uneven breathing. He sought control again, forcing her to slide back and forth over him until it hurt, his hips tilting up to feel more pressure. When he tried entering her, Éowyn only laughed and shifted her lower body sideways, foiling the attempt.

"Enough games," the prince of Eryn Lasgalen ordered, slapping her gently on the rear. His eyes were narrowed on her despite his smile, his voice hoarse and impatient.

Smirking, Éowyn leaned closer to his face. Hers was fierce, flushed with heat and desire. "I said, _I_ lead _."_

She felt a quiver beneath her, and it tugged at her heartstrings. She was slow to take him in her, her hand on his hipbone keeping him still.

The Elf hissed between his teeth, and his grip tightened, near bruising on her creamy white thighs. He strained up to meet her, his eyes on her grin, his hands cupping her small breasts.

He cut her with a sharp smile. "Lead, then."


End file.
